Just when things are getting really complicated, that’s when you can depend on the Great Bird of the Universe to turn the gain up to 11.

Through a series of interesting circumstances, involving an Easter-time acquisition of a pet by a newly-wed couple not entirely comfortable with having to pay any attention to another small being, a bit of total soft-heartedness on the part of Sgt/Cpl. Blondie (and a lot of soft-headedness on my own part) I now have another dog, in addition to the Lesser, but Known Weevil.

So much for sticking with the Known Weevil, in preference to embracing the Weevil You Know Nothing Of.

The Weevil I Know Nothing Of is a tiny, pure-bred, black and white shitzu female puppy, of the sort that my sister Pippy always described as a “barking cat”. She is about five weeks old, very affectionate, and a little bit clingy, but as clever as a cat about doing all those winning, “awwwww!” moment moves.

The Known and Lesser Weevil is intrigued, not hostile, but has a predisposition for pinning down the puppy with one great clumsy paw, and trying to play— she tries this with Percival and Sammy, and they just bash her in the nose with a barbed paw, but the puppy does not have this retaliatory capability, and yelped piercingly. Until the puppy is older, and more worldly wise, their playtimes will be closely supervised.

The cats are still adjusting, although Sammy has just pissed on the floor. But that may be because the litter-box is in a most insalubrious condition.

Oh, and the puppy has been ceremoniously christened “Spike”, in order to give her something to live up to. Do they make those metal-barbed collars in a size to fit a shitzu, I wonder?